58 THE FOREST LANDS OF NORTHERN RUSSIA. 
No wonder that he looked on thee so intently ! 
No one can help loving thee. : 
The yellow robe, and the ornaments in thy black hair 
I can liken only to the night, 
In the pink hue of thy snowy face 
I see the dawn coming forth ; 
From under thy arched eyebrows 
There looks forth the roguish eye ! 
One look of the dark, broad-shouldered gipsy, 
So like the spark of fire setting on fire the forest, 
Would cause the old man to ruin himself in presents, 
But in the heart of the young man awakens only love ! 
Yes, you will have lovers enough and to spare, 
Thy life will be both full and free, 
To thy share will fall abundance, 
To the pawky slut comes not the poor mwjik (peasant). 
Such is the yemschick, one of the most interesting, if not 
the only interesting, object of study on such a journey. He 
may be clad in a sheepskin shoube, or in hodden grey, or, 
like some village Lothario, in velvet coat, loose red drawers, 
and shining boots, with one or two, or it may be half a 
dozen peacock feathers wound round his hat—the indica- 
tion of his being a Government driver. Such are the 
yemschick, his sentiments and his songs, these being 
generally of love, and always in a minor key, wound up 
and closing with a long drawn out fugue, dolorous, plain- 
tive, rising and swelling and dying away with the cadence 
of an Molian harp; and then there follows generally a 
word or two of endearment addressed to his horses—one 
of them addressed as his golubchik or turtle dove, and 
another as his doushinka or sweet little soul; but some- 
times words of scolding are used, such as I would not 
willingly repeat, save to tell that during the time of the 
Crimean war, and for some time thereafter, they had no 
more spiteful names te call them than Palmerston and 
Aberdeen! 
